A Neverending Ache
by timelords-wizards-winchesters
Summary: He can feel it, when she dies. And he's held it back for so long that he can't do it anymore. "He hurts, Rory. He hurts so much and he never talks about it." Implied Doctor/Rose, Doctor/Amy friendship. Oneshot.


**I've always had this personal headcanon that the TARDIS and Rose had some sort of connection, even after she was back in the parallel universe with the metacrisis, and through the TARDIS, the Doctor and Rose had a connection as well, and this story kinda comes from that idea. I really enjoyed writing it, so I hope you enjoy!**

/

The moment the Doctor set foot in the console room, he could tell something was wrong. The TARDIS was queasy – upset or anxious, he wasn't quite sure, but the feeling rushed through his mind in crashing waves, so powerful that he nearly staggered back.

It looked wrong, too – the lights, usually bright, had dimmed. It seemed almost stale. The console that was usually bright and bubbly was darker and grayer. The comforting hum that usually came from the ship, the warmth that soaked into the atmosphere, was nearly absent.

He heard footsteps behind him, but his gaze remained on the console. He knew it was Rory that shuffled into the room behind him – he was always awake before Amy was, and Amy was never that quiet.

"Is the TARDIS sick or something?" Rory asked. The Doctor frowned. "Can TARDISes get sick?"

"She's not sick," he said slowly, still trying to process the dreadful feeling that was radiating in his mind. "More like distressed."

"Why?"

"I don't know," the Doctor admitted carefully. Slowly, he reached out an arm to touch the console.

"What's wrong, old girl?" he whispered to her.

He was unprepared for the answer.

"Doctor, are you alright?" Rory asked immediately as the Doctor pulled his hand back from the console, cradling it like he'd been shocked. It certainly looked that way – the Doctor's jaw went slack and he let out a harsh breath.

Then he turned around and walked away, leaving Rory alone in the console room.

/

It was unnervingly quiet, Amy thought, suspicious of the calm atmosphere on the TARDIS. As she made her way to the kitchen, pulling her sweater tight around her slim frame, she frowned. She'd been sleeping for a while. The Doctor normally would've burst through her bedroom door, rousing the Ponds for a new adventure. Today, he had yet to make an appearance.

Rory was sitting alone in the kitchen when she entered.

"What's wrong?" she asked him, noting the way his brow was furrowed in concern and the fact that he was staring at his tea instead of drinking it.

"I don't know," Rory sighed, somewhat exasperated. "You can feel it, can't you? Something's wrong with the TARDIS, everything feels all wonky."

Amy paused for a moment, taking in the uneasy feeling.

"It's like…she's empty," Amy thought aloud as she moved to grab her mug and pour her own tea. "Not as lively, as she usually is." Rory nodded in agreement.

"The Doctor said she was 'distressed'", Rory said, finger quoting. "And then he got all…strange, I suppose, and he walked off."

"Where did he go?" Amy asked, bringing her mug to her lips and taking a sip.

"I have no clue," Rory mumbled, looking vaguely worried about their friend's whereabouts. "You should have seen his face, Amy. He looked so… _sad_."

Amy stopped.

"Sad?"

"Yes, sad," Rory repeated. He met her eyes. "He was like…an entirely different person."

Amy frowned, her eyes narrowing as she set down her mug. Rory could tell from the way his wife's jaw was set that she had made a decision.

"I'm going to find him."

/

"Doctor!" Amy called. She had been wandering the corridors for what must have been half an hour, trying to find him. She was deeper into the ship than she had ever been before, knocking on door after door, when she turned a corner, and there it was. A door at the end of the corridor in front of her, left slightly ajar. It was white and wooden, the paint chipping in some places, looking organic and out of place among the other metal doors that lined the hallway.

Approaching hurriedly, Amy pushed the door open, sighing with relief when she saw the Doctor standing in the center of the room. She opened her mouth to speak, but caught herself. He was facing away from her, but as she got closer, she could tell from his posture – something was wrong. His shoulders, normally set with confidence, were sagging, his arms hanging loosely at his sides. He had taken off his tweed jacket. It was laid carefully on the nearest chair.

Looking around, she began to notice the room for the first time. The walls were painted a warm, pale peach color. A bed was pushed up against the furthest wall, a dresser with a large mirror on the opposite side of the room. There was a sliding door left open that led into a closet.

Clothes were scattered around the floor, makeup strewn across the vanity. A large tack board hung above the bed, littered with pictures that Amy couldn't see from a distance. The bed itself was unmade, the sheets crumpled into a pile and the pillows tossed on in a random fashion.

It was a bedroom. A girl's bedroom. But whose?

Amy glanced back at the Doctor, who had yet to move, or even notice her. She spoke up softly.

"Doctor?"

When the Time Lord turned to look at her, her breath caught in her throat. His expression was slack. His eyes were red and watery. There was an age, an emptiness to them that she had never seen before. Mostly, he looked tired. Tired and sad, and very un-Doctorish. She understood what Rory had been trying to describe earlier.

Pulled from his trance, the Doctor turned away from Amy and walked over to the bed, sitting on the edge of it. In his hand was a small piece of paper – a picture. He traced it gingerly, his fingers following the edges. Amy hesitated, hanging back in the doorway. He still had yet to say a word, and it was worrying.

The Doctor ran his hands over the crumpled sheets, taking a deep, hoarse breath. He dropped his face in his hands, leaning on his elbows. The picture he'd been holding fluttered to the ground, landing softly on the squishy carpet. Everything was silent for a moment.

Then she noticed the trembling. His hands, his shoulders, his entire body shook, wracked with silent sobs.

"Raggedy man," she said worriedly, because that's all she could think to say, crossing the room to kneel in front of him. She reached out a hand to touch his shoulder, and suddenly he was reaching back, scrambling to embrace her, and a horrid, involuntary cry tore from his throat.

The Doctor cried, and she held him and stroked his hair and bit back her own tears. She pulled up to sit beside him on the bed, letting his tears soak her sweater and silently, gently rocking.

"She's dead, oh god, she's dead, Amy," he was gasping. She said nothing, just held him tighter, cradling his head like a child's, drawing him in to her chest.

"She's gone, she's been gone for so long," he whispered into her shirt, his voice cracking. "But I could feel her, she was there on the edge of my mind, and now I…"

Amy's eyes trailed down to the floor, looking at the forgotten photograph. It was a girl, a simple girl with blonde hair and brown eyes and wide smile, her tongue poking through her teeth.

She murmured words of comfort into his hair as she hugged him. He was calmer, now – the heart-wrenching sobs giving way to a silent stream of tears. She almost didn't catch his next words, they were so quiet.

"She's dead and I never told her," the Doctor choked. "I could never say it."

Amy could feel the ache in the words, and she suddenly understood.

"So say it now," she said softly. She untangled herself from the Doctor, one hand trailing down to grasp his own and squeezing it. She picked up the photograph off the floor and placed it in his empty hand. He stared at the girl and his bottom lip trembled.

"I –" he began, but the words died in his throat. Amy grasped his hand tighter and he tried again.

"I love you," he said quietly. "I love you."

Amy felt a tear slipping down her cheek. She laced her fingers with the Doctor's and lay her head on his shoulder, looking at the picture herself.

"She's beautiful," she said, and she felt the Doctor's responding nod.

"Yeah," he said hoarsely. "She is."

"What's her name?"

The Doctor's thumb brushed over the girl's face fondly.

"Rose. Her name is Rose," he said, pausing to clear his throat. A gentle smile crossed his face. "You would have liked her."

Silence fell again, but the Doctor was sitting up a little straighter. He turned and kissed Amy's forehead.

"Thank you, Pond."

/

"Amy! There you are. Did you find him?"

Rory stopped speaking and set down his novel as he noticed his wife's expression. Immediately, he was up out of their bed and at her side.

"Yeah, I found him."

"Amy, what's wrong? Have you been crying?"

She opened her mouth, but closed it again just as quickly. Rory placed a hand on her shoulder.

"Where's the Doctor?"

"He's in her room," Amy said after a moment.

"In whose room?"

"She's gone," Amy said, her voice sounding small. "He loved her. And she's gone."

"Amy?"

"She died. Today, I think. He said – he said he could feel her. He used to feel her, in his mind, and he can't. Anymore."

"Blimey," Rory said.

"He hurts, Rory. He hurts so much and he never talks about it," Amy said.

They both fell silent as they heard footsteps approaching. The door to their bedroom creaked open with a faint knock and the Doctor poked his head in. He was smiling, but it was a pained sort of smile.

"I'm in the mood for some chips. What do you say, Ponds?"


End file.
